


Love at the Bottom of a Bottle

by Brennah_K



Category: NCIS
Genre: Abduction, Age-Regression, Angst, BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rohyphnil, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brennah_K/pseuds/Brennah_K
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Kate’s death, after being ‘strong for his team’, and after one hell of an internal review, Gibbs seeks absolution, or at least oblivion, in the bottom of a bottle, but the only thing at the bottom of the bottle is rohypnol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haunted

_“Why me, Gibbs?”_

Closing his eyes, Jethro Gibbs raises the glass of ‘Gentlemen Jack’ bourbon to his lips, ignoring Kate - who’s sitting on the bar stool beside him, morosely twisting one of the whiskey glasses he’d already emptied.

 _“Why did I have to take two?”_

The bullet hole is still obvious on her forehead, despite the professional job Ducky did cleaning and closing the wound before releasing her body to the funeral services detachment.

“I - I don’t know.” he murmurs into the glass, unable to meet her eyes.

 _“You don’t know?”_ She sounds disbelieving, and maybe she should, he thinks as he swirls the last sip in the bottom of the glass. His answer sounds weak, even to his own ears.

Tipping the glass back, he empties the glass and waves to the bar tender, with a grumble, “Keep it coming.”

“Yes, Sir.” The bartender sounds a little more enthusiastic than Jethro thinks he should, on a such slow night, but then maybe a still-not-drunk-enough screw-up of field agent/NCIS detective/team leader... and his accompanying ghost were better than no one. He hopes the kid isn’t planning on him tipping for the two of them; Kate isn’t drinking anyways, and Jethro is fairly certain he’ll drink his wallet dry.

 _“Come on, Gibbs. What’s that famous gut tell you? Why did I die instead of you?_

“I - I don’t know.” He can’t meet her gaze any more than he can face the answer to her question, and he knows she knows it.

 _“I think you do.”_ She offers softly, reaching out to stop his hand before he picks up the whiskey glass the bartender just delivered. _“I think you know what’s going on here, too. Why aren’t you fighting this? Why are you just ...”_

 _Jethro reaches through her hand for the whiskey and tosses it back, before she can protest his action._

 _“I did fight him.” He disputes, “I beat him... sent him back in a casket.”_

 _“I wasn’t talking about Ari.”_ She sighs, sounding like she thought he should know what she’s talking about, and maybe he should, but he can honestly say that - at the moment, at least - he doesn’t. The Gentlemen Jack is, finally, being the gentlemen and showing him a bit of kindness - blurring the edges of everything. Even Kate seems oddly fuzzy, which is admittedly odd, because he knows … he knows that she’s not physically present.

He may have been late to her funeral, but he hadn’t missed it; he’d been there to see it, to see her lowered into the ground, so he knows... He knows she can’t be there, not physically at least, and if she’s not there _physically_ she shouldn’t be blurry and moving slower than normal speed.

“I … What?!?”

Kate said something, a moment ago; he’s sure of it, but the bartenders back, and Jethro is pretty sure that being seen having a discussion with the ghost of a buried team member isn’t a good thing, so he shuts mouth and turns to face the guy with the best blank face he can muster.

“You want something?” He hopes his voice doesn’t come out as slurred sounding as he thinks it does, because really three rounds shouldn’t have him this far under the table, already.

 _“No, it shouldn’t.”_ Kate agrees softly. _” You know something’s wrong here, Gibbs. You know.”_

He does; what’s wrong here is that she isn’t here, in the flesh, surrounded by his team, laughing at DiNizzo’s ridiculous jokes or Abby’s awkward comments.

 _“That’s not what I’m talking about, and...”_

“Sir, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to cut you off, now.” The bartender interrupts, cutting her off, and Jethro wants to tell him that he’s being rude, but doesn’t think it would make much sense to the kid, and anyway it’s clear that he’s drunker than he should be.

“Kay...” He answers and tries again because that sounds too much like something that DiNizzo would say. “Oh-Kay. Yuur’e prob-bubh-ly ri-ight.” he agrees, very careful not to slur his words. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, so it’s not quite as easy as he’d like to keep the slur out of his tone, but he thinks he’s managed it until he looks up and notices the boy’s odd expression.

“Sir, I need to ask you for your car keys, please? I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive home. Do you have someone you can call?”

 _“Call Tony!”_ Kate suggest urgently.

“No.” He answers them both, out loud, maybe a bit too loud. Grabbing the bar, he pulls himself out off the bar stool.

 _“McGee, then.”_

He shakes his head and has to grip the bar as he sways - woozy.

“No, ss-okay. Not too far. Can walk...”

Some air would do him some good, and he’d walked further - shot and bleeding out.

 _“Don’t be a stubborn ass, Gibbs. Call Ducky or Abbs. You’re not thinking straight._

“Can’t,” He grumbles. “Shouldn’t see me like this... they’v nuff to deal…”

“Sir, if you don’t live too far, I can drive you home soon. I just have to close up the bar. We have a back room you can crash in till I’m done.”

“Kay, sounds good.” Jethro agrees. Kate’s insistence that he call someone is beginning to make him wonder if he even can walk home. His legs are feeling a bit like jello as it is, and well, whose kidding who, it’s been a hell of a week.

Kate’s concerns faded into the back ground as he sways again, and the kid rushs forward to catch him before he falls.

“Here, let me help you.” The kid’s pretty strong and more than half carries Jethro to a back room and lays him into a reclining chair.

To his frustration, instead of passing when he finds himself in the chair, Jethro’s wooziness doubles or maybe triples, judging by how fast the room seems to be spinning- causing him to groan as he throws an arm across his eyes.

“Hey, are you alright, there?”

A soft hand slaps his face gently, and Jethro wants to slap it away, but his arm feels too heavy to lift.

“You okay?”

That’s a pretty good question.

“Wow, you’re pretty out of it, aren’t ya? Here let me take your shoes off so you can relax.”

The bourbon’s working a bit better than Jethro really wants it to, numbing him all over, until he can’t even really feel his feet, but there’s a tug on his leg followed by a thud, followed by another tug and another thud, then muffled footsteps.

“I’ll the turn the light out, okay?”

Jethro’s grunt, in response, isn’t exactly an okay, but the kid leaves before he can get the words out. His arm’s too heavy to move easily, but after a couple of tries, he’s able to drag it down and fumble with increasingly numb fingers to pull his phone out of his pocket. It’s just as hard to open it, and it falls out of his grip almost as soon as he hits the speed dial.

He doesn’t go after it; though, he’s too woozy; his head’s too heavy, and he doesn’t even realize that the phone hit just right to dial the last number he’d called before coming to the bar. He’s just too tired and dazed to be aware of anything else and slumps down into the chair, and glad for the chance to get a few minutes rest before the kid comes back to take him home because he’s not really sure he can walk right now or even if he wants to try.


	2. Abby's Bad Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Kate’s death, after being ‘strong for his team’, and after one hell of an internal review, Gibbs seeks absolution, or at least oblivion, in the bottom of a bottle, but the only thing at the bottom of the bottle is rohypnol.

_”You’re a mess, girl. Red eyes, no makeup.”_

“I know, I know,” Abby sighs wrinkling her nose as she tries to turn a sniffle into something else.

She really wishes the boss hadn’t sent her home, where the only thing to do is sit on her bed trying not to sniffle. Well, really, there was a lot to do but not anything, not anything at all, that she feels LIKE doing, and she figures that if she doesn’t feel like doing it that really she shouldn’t be doing it because she likes to think that she always _feels_ what she’s doing when she does it, and right now, she feels like hugging someone, but there’s no one around to hug, other than the stuffed life-sized crocodile that she keeps under her couch, but he’s no where near as fun to have around as Bert, the hippo, but Bert’s still at the lab because when he called, Gibbs had told her to go home right that minute, and he sounded huffy and sad and hurt enough that she really hadn’t wanted to make him mad, too; even though, she’s more than a little mad at him for letting Ziva set him up to trap Ari - without telling any of the others, and then showing up late to Kate’s funeral, but she couldn’t fuss because that was better than him not showing up at all. Especially if he’d not shown up at all because Ari had killed him, that would have been the worst of all. Worse even than Kate getting killed, and way worse than Tony getting sick and almost dying because he hadn’t.

_“If ever there was a time for black lipstick, it’s now.”_

Grabbing Mazey Podge, Abby pulls her back to bed, and fishes out the tube of lipstick out of the apron that she’d pinned around to teddy scare’s waist.

“It’s called ebony temptation,” she murmurs to Kate with a smile as she slides it across her lower lip then pulls Mazey’s mirror around to check it. Her make up's a little smeared, so she blots her cheeks and eyes, tucks away the lipstick and borrows Mazey’s midnight black mascara.

 _“That’s better.”_ Kate has a smile in her voice, but Abby doesn’t turn her head to check cause she’s afraid of starting to cry again.

_Don’t start that again. You’ve done enough of that already. I liked the music by the way. Nice choice._

“Thanks, I thought you’d be okay with it.”

_“I am, but you weren’t wearing your pigtails. Where’re your pigtails? I love you in pigtails.”_

Abby shrugs, reaches up to divide her hair up, and starts putting them in.

_That’s better._

Abby nods, turning her head as her phone starts jingling the tune for _speak_.

Kate’s eyebrows rise when Abby tries to ignore it.

 _”Rule three, remember,”_ she prompts.

“I don’t want to hear any more bad news.” Abby complains - reaching for the phone.

 _”Never be unreachable,”_ Kate sing-songs.

“It’s Gibbs!” Abby murmurs in surprise, waving her hand to shush Kate.

“Hey Boss, Whattsup?” Abby tries for cheerful, and when Gibbs doesn’t answer immediately, she’s pretty sure he saw right through her attempt.

After a second, when he still doesn’t say anything, she checks the phone... but the line’s still open, and she plugs a finger in her other ear, just to double check, but she’s sure she can hear one of those retro ‘80s songs playing in the background.

“Boss?!?”

“Hey... HEY GIBBS?”

Curling her fingers into a c, she sticks the tips of her index finger and thumb into her mouth and whistles shrilly into the phone- sure that it would bring his attention back to her, but he doesn’t answer, and she can’t hear anyone talking in the background.

“Boss-man!” She keeps calling him, propping the phone between her chin and shoulder, so she can open her laptop and boot it.

ブレンキン

“Tony, Tony, Pick up. Answer me. You’ve gotta answer me. I can’t take the two of you not answering me because that’s just wrong, but something is wrong, at least, I think something’s wrong, but you have to answer me and tell me if it’s wrong or not because I think it is, but maybe you know Gibbs better, and maybe he’s done this before, so maybe it’s not as bad as I’m thinking it is right now, but you’re not answering either, and I’m not sure who to call next. I don’t think McGee is...”

“ABS!” Tony interrupted her sharply. “Breathe. Stop and breathe.”

“What are you talking about, Tony? I’m breathing. I haven’t stopped breathing; I haven’t stopped freaking either. Gibbs called me.”

“Why, about what? ... Come on, Abs. What did he say?”

“He didn’t.”

“He didn’t? What do you mean ‘he didn’t’? He didn’t what?”

“He didn’t say anything. He still hasn’t said anything. He isn’t saying anything; there’s just this retro music playing in the background? He isn’t saying anything. Not anything.”

“Okay, Abs, calm down. Where are you? How long ago did he call?”

“I’m at home, and like twenty minutes?”

“Okay, good. I’ll be right over. I’ll take you to the lab and you can...”

“Hurry, Tony. I’m right aren’t I? That this isn’t like Gibbs at all? I mean he can be the strong, silent, John Wayne kind of quiet menacing type, and even walk like one of those western gunslinger type actors, which kind of makes sense because he was a sniper to and maybe there’s just something in carrying a gun that gives someone a walk like that but Gibbs walks more like the Clint Eastwood kind of gunman (in the _Quick and the Dead_ not _the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_ ) than the John Wayne kind of gunman, don’t you think so? Tony? Tony? Oh God, now you’re not answering, and I know that you were on the phone, too unless this is like one of the old episodes of the _Twilight Zone_ and maybe it’s happening to me, but not the rest of you, and I’m just fading away and don’t kno-”

“ABBY! Calm down, I just set the phone down to put on my jacket. Just get ready; I’ll be there in twenty, no, more like thirteen minutes. Okay?”

“Oh; oh good. Okay. Okay, but you think I’m right, don’t you? That Gibbs wouldn’t just call and not talk to me, even if he was really, really, super ticked off.”

“Yeah,” Tony pauses, and Abby is like 197% certain that he’s trying to soften what he’s going to say next because Tony’s like Gibbs - like that. “I’m coming to pick you up, and Abs, just for the record...”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think it’s even possible for _you_ to do anything that could get him that ticked off... I’m another story, but you... no.”

“Oh,” She whispers back, dropping one hand from where it was twisting her pony tail to pat his icon on her skype screen. “Okay, thanks. That’s nice to hear... Uhm... Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“How long before you get here?”

“I’m two blocks away.”

“Okay, that’s way too fast, but okay.”

“Just be ready.”

ブレンキン

“Yay, you’re here.” Abby cries as she flings herself at Tony - not only ready, but waiting to jump Tony and hug him almost as soon as he gets out of his car. She knows he could have just pulled up to her driveway, honked, and waited for her to hop in, but Tony never does that. He’s like Gibbs- like that; no matter how rushed she’s ever seen him, Tony has always gotten out of the car and, at the very least, held the door open for her.

This time, he takes her bag, her lap top, and still manages to catch her, hug her back, nice and tight, before holding the door open for her, returning her lap top to her lap, and running around the back to get in himself. On the whole, the operation takes less than thirteen seconds if she didn’t miss one of her onethousandandones’.

“Thanks for coming to pick me up. You think I’m right don’t you?”

“Yeah, Abs, if he was all right, he’d be answering, or be here himself. Is the line still open?”

“Yeah, here listen?” Abby shoves the phone in his ear.

“Okay, first things first, is there any chance that you have accidentally downloaded some of our tracking programs onto your laptop. Say, anything that might …”

“Track GPS locations?” Abby chewed on her lip a little sheepishly as she shook her head, “no.”

“Abs...”

“I didn’t. The algorithms those programs use are way to slow and overloaded for any practical use on a laptop.”

“Okay, straight to the office, then.”

Before she can correct him, he’s pulling out his phone and growling into it, “I don’t care if you just woke up. Get your ass in gear and down to the office. No, I don’t care that it hasn’t been twenty four hours, or that we aren’t on an active case, right now. Rule Three says never be unreachable, and not answering your phone is the definition of unreachable...”

…

“Tell you what, Probie, let me translate that into geek for you - Gibbs not answering his phone is like Bill Gates buying a Macintosh. Good, I’m glad that got through to you. So, get it in gear and...” Grabbing his arm to interrupt him, Abby flips open the laptop, double clicks her ‘itchy, and scratchy’ icon, and quickly types in Gibb’s phone number, ignoring Tony’s arched eyebrow.

“Hold on, I think Abby’s got something... What’s the address, Abs?”

“The corner of Largo and Pendelton.”

“Did you hear that, Probie? Good, get there.” As soon as he hangs up, Tony’s staring at her with a half-questioning smirk. “And _here_ , I thought you didn’t download...”

“I didn’t,” Abby denies, a little bit slyly, even though the occasion is probably a bit too serious for it, “but I just might have fiddled with something of my own.”

“Okay, I can go with that; how far of a radius are we looking at here? One miles, two miles, five?”

“No, fifty - sixty yards, at the outside.”

“Damn, Girl, why aren’t we using it at the office?”

“There,” She points, watching on her screen as the little red dot of their car get’s closer and closer to the corner of Pendelton and Corsair.

“There, turn right. Hurry. It’s at the end of the block. There, right there!.... Director Shepard’s trying to get it approved, but they’ve got some hangups because my degrees aren’t all top-top-secret-computer-programming-stuff... And they’re kinda not too happy that I hacked their programs to figure out their mistakes.”

“Dipwads!” Tony growls, and reaches over to scruff her hair. Glancing at the screen, he smiles brightly at her and look’s at up at the building that would have a big red dot on it if her computer had a laser pin-pointer function, Tony gives her his ‘good girl’ grin and ruffles her hair again.

“Okay, stay here.”

“But!”

“Abby, Stay! Look McGee’s right there. You just stay out here until McGee and I come out.”

“What if you don’t come out?”

“Then get out of here, and call the Director. Got me? I’m counting on you, now. Gibbs is counting on you, to watch our six, and get help if we need it. If we’re not back in … twenty minutes, you get out of here and call Shepard down on them.”

“Yes, Sir.” Abby almost salutes to show him how much he can rely on her but thinks he might laugh if she did and decides against it. He’s gone before she can say anything else.

ブレンキン

“Come on Gibbs, be there! Be okay. Be pissed that we’re interrupting something hot and heavy or a wicked poker game or... or anything... Just be okay.” Abby murmurs over and over as she counts the minutes by in sixty onethousandandones at a time.

It’s only been eight minutes, so she’s not worried, yet, at least not really, really, really worried, but she does wish that she had Bert with her.

“sixtyonethousandone,” she whispers interrupting as her ninth minute passes, just in time for Tony to come out of the bar and wave her over.

She apologizes in her thoughts, to the laptop as she throws it aside, but she’s not sorry enough to slow down, and nearly plows into Tony when he catches her before she can go in.

“I want to see him.”

“He’s not in there, Abs.”

“But his phone, I’m sure of the triangulation.” And she is; she’s worked on that program for weeks and tested it over a dozen times without fail. "His phone has to be...”

“It is.” McGee offers, and he looks really pale and unsettled as he answers her. “His phone, his keys, his car, his shoes: they’re all there, but Gibbs isn’t.”

The world or at least the big broad square of it that she can see whirls a little and tilts sideways as Tony catches her under the arms and behind her legs and scoops her up. And that seems like a funny thing for him to do, until Tony growls, “Good work, Probie! Fainting witnesses always make the job easier.”

And she wants to tell him that she’s not really fainting, except that maybe she is... just a little.

ブレンキン


	3. Enter the Sandman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some BDSM content contained in this chapter, but the violence and non-con warnings won't truly apply until the next chapter. As its drafted now, chapter 4 is the only chapter that will have traces of graphic violence and noncon depictions. If these elements disturb you, please skip to chapter 5.

_”Billy, I know that this is difficult for you, but...”_ Agent Gibb’s voice whispers quietly, and Bill double checks over his shoulder to be sure that the man was still out, but it’s the Agent Gibbs in his mind, not the semi-conscious Gibbs on his shoulder who’s been talking to him.

“No, Sir. It’s not at all. You’re really not that heavy, you know, and your walking as far as you did before passing out helped a lot. Thanks for that, by the way.”

_”I need you to talk to me, Billy.”_

“I want to, I really do, but I talked to Grandpa Frank, and my dad, and Uncle Jay, but it didn’t help. They didn’t … They asked, but they didn’t want know, not really.”

 _”I want to help you, but to do that, I need you to talk to me. I need to know what happened.”_ Gibbs’ voice presses gently.

“No, talking doesn’t help, but I’ve figured it out. I can show you, so you’ll understand...”

Laying Gibbs over the back of the table, Bill pats the man on his back.

“Just stay right there.” He orders softly from the cellar door, “I’ll be back in a few minute. I need to close the bar down remember? It won’t take long.”

Closing the door firmly, Bill whispers another soft ‘thank you’ to the agent, drops the padlock through the hasp, locks it, and pockets the key.

ブレンキン

To Bill’s unhappy surprise, he’s almost finished wiping out the glasses when two men rush into the bar, most likely figuring that he was about to close.

“Sorry guys, but it’s been a really slow night, and I’m closing now.”

Almost completely ignoring him, the men glance around the room, then back at each other and start a conversation. It doesn’t take long for him to realize what they’re looking for, or rather, who they’re looking for.

“Check the Men’s room, Probie.”

“Err, what if he’s...”

“Do I have to make that an order?”

“Uhhh, no, I'm on it.”

“Not while you’re still standing here you’re not.”

Finally the heavier set one walks off with a scowl, and the thin taller one turns to him pasting on a fake smile.

“Can I help you, Sir? I haven’t put all the bottles away yet, and I guess it wouldn’t hurt to...” Bill offers; he hasn’t thought, before this, about what to do if anyone came looking for Agent Gibbs, but figures that it wouldn’t hurt if he seemed helpful.

“Are you the only one here?”

“Uh...”

“Uh?” The thin guy’s eyes narrow suspiciously, “That shouldn’t be a hard question.”

“It’s not; I’m just not sure how much to say when I don’t even know who I’m talking to.”

“That depends on what you’re trying to hide, and I’m Agent Anthony DiNozzo, with the NCIS.”

“Oh, well, I’m not trying to hide anything, but...” Bill pauses going over the evening a couple times in his mind.

“But?!?”

“Look, you know sometimes some of our customers have really bad days and other crap going on that... well, makes them drink maybe a little more than they normally would.”

“I’m following you.” Agent DiNozzo replies swirling his fingers in a ‘keep going’ gesture.

“Well, sometimes when that happens, if they don’t seem like they’re sober enough to drive home, on their own, we get their keys and let them sleep it off in the back room.”

“And you have a customer back there now?” DiNozzo asks, something in his eyes seeming at once knowing and sadly understanding.

“Yeah, but I don’t want him to get fired if he’s one of you guys. You don’t have to tell anyone, do you? Because he didn’t try to drive on his own, and I don’t think he realized he’d get drunk that quick, he seemed to think he could walk home on his own.”

“No, Kid, I won’t. Neither of us will,” DiNozzo nods to the other man, who’s probably an NCIS agent, too. “We just want to make sure he’s alright. You said you had his keys?”

“Yeah,” Bill agrees, glad that he’d left the keys in the register instead of pocketing them as he’d first thought to do.

“Here they are.” DiNozzo almost grabs them from him, double checks them with a nod, and tosses them to the other man.

“They’re his alright. You have a back parking lot?”

“Yeah, just down that hall.” Bill points them to the side exit, instead of the back entrance.

“Okay, McGee, go make sure his car’s still here. Kid show me where he is.”

“You’re sure he won’t get in trouble for this?” Bill presses, trying not to seem too eager or interested for his own personal reasons.”

“I’m sure; now take me to him.” DiNozzo insists, but doesn’t sound as suspicious as he did earlier.

“Okay, if you’re sure; he’s back here.”

Leaving the bar, Bill heads back to the back room with the recliner, where he’d first put Gibbs and took off his shoes until he was sure that the agent was out.

“Yeah, that’s the music we heard,” DiNozzo comments on the bar’s stereo as they near the door, and despite himself, Bill’s getting a little excited, waiting to see how the man will react.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s in he-” Bill stops trying to pretend surprise, which isn’t hard when he realizes that he’d left Gibbs shoes below the recliner.

“Where is he?” DiNozzo’s tone is practically a snarl, and Bill backs up raising his hands like he’s surrendering.

“I - I - He was back here. I swear!”

“ _That_ ; I can tell, but where did he go?”

“He didn’t pass me at the bar, but he could have gone out to the parking lot.”

“Wouldn’t you have seen him, staggering around drunk?”

“Yes... maybe... Er...maybe not.”

“Which is it?” The Agent challenges, getting hostile again.

“When I took the trash out to the back, I didn’t take long, and the bin’s right by the back door, but when I did, he could have gone out either door - and I wouldn’t have seen him.”

“Damn it, Gibbs!” DiNozzo slams his hand into the wall, then seems to regain his composure and asks, “You don’t mind if we have a look around? Do you?”

“No, of course not,” Bill agrees praying under his breath that Gibbs stays zoned out.

ブレンキン

Close to ten minutes later, they bring in an odd girl who’s talking abnormally fast and dressed like someone from the Addams Family and let her take a look around, finally take his information, and leave, but Bill waits another hour and a half, doing his usual tidy up of the bar, until he’s sure they’ve gone for the night, before he locks up for the night and slips down to the cellar through the outside door.

Thankfully, the three ruffies seem to have been enough to have completely knocked Gibbs out, which should make things a lot easier.

After locking the door from the inside, Bill pulls out the box that he’s spent months preparing for his demonstration and turns back to Gibbs studying the man for several seconds before deciding to start with his pants, undressing him.

Despite how old he has to be now, Gibbs is really quite fit, and Bill’s almost pleased when he feels a stirring in his groin. That should, at least, make things a little easier.

He’s very gentle with the unconscious detective, as he covers Gibbs eyes with the adhesive eye patches, then slips the ring gag between the man’s teeth, tightens the strap behind his head, and buckles it tightly, glad when it goes as smoothly as it does. It’s a little tougher to get Gibbs to hold still as he slides his homemade spreader bar and chain cuffs up the agent’s arms past his elbow and cinches the chains tightly with a padlock before repeating the process with his wrists and knees. Gibbs is cooperative, though, and doesn’t really start to cause trouble until Billy lifts him up drops the loose chain from the bar between his elbows over the engine hoist’s hook.

It’s not too much of a problem, yet; Gibbs is still groggy, groaning incoherently, and only shifting weakly in Billy’s grip, so it doesn’t take too much more to slip another bar underneath Gibb’s hips, between his stomach and his groin and attach the chains at each end over the hook to keep some of the agent’s weight off his arms. There’s only one more thing to add, a u-bolt slipped around the base of Gibbs’ shaft... tightened to the last thread on each side - and Gibbs is finally secure, and almost ready to leave on his own.

The halter that came with the ring gag has optional hooks for a sound blocking headpiece, but instead of the cheap earmuffs that went with it, Billy slides a heavy jabbra wireless-headset over Gibbs ears, and secures it in place with some extra straps he’s added. Once they're secured, Billy lays a grateful hand on the back of the agent’s head, acknowledging the Gibbs in his mind’s continuing whispers, “ _I want to help you, but … I need to know what happened._ ”

“Thank you for trying,” Billy answers sincerely, running his hands across Gibbs shoulders briefly, “I better get going now, though.”

”Ennghrr,” Gibbs, in the room finally chimes in.

“Good Night, Sir.” Billy answers sincerely, as he turns on the stereo by the wall and sets it on an endless loop feeding the music directly to Gibbs’ headset.

The room’s silent, but Billy doesn’t need to hear the song anymore, the song’s lyrics have been running through their own endless loop in his mind for years...

 _Hush little baby don't say a word_  
And never mind that noise you heard  
It's just the beast under your bed  
In your closet in your head  
Exit light  
Enter night  
Grain of sand  
Exit light  
Enter night  
  


“...Take my hand. We're off to never never-land...We're off to never never-...” Billy hums the chorus silently to himself as he slips the padlock back through the hasp and locks the door behind him.

ブレンキン


	4. Succumbing to Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I warned you about. In the end, I backed off the graphic violence a bit, and tried to focus more on Gibb's mental state, but it still may be troubling for the BDSM and Non-con Elements. Please skip to chapter five, if so.

_  
Say your prayers little one  
Don't forget my son  
To include everyone  
I tuck you in..._

Groaning, Jethro tosses his head, again and again- just his head. Hours ago, he learned the consequences of throwing his whole body - trying to break himself free, unable to even hear the groan of pain as cold metal bit into incredibly sensitive organs that have been denied their natural blood supply for hours. Nothing he does, though, dislodges the headpiece clamped tightly over his ears, forcing-feeding him a song that he can’t say he ever really liked to begin with, but is quickly growing to despise.

The worst effect of the music, in his mind, isn’t only that it’s too loud (loud enough to cause a migraine that feels like it’s gone on for hours), or keeping him constantly on edge, or blocking his ability to tell if there’s anyone else in the room: the worst effect is that it’s completely blurring his sense of time - repeating over and over until the sameness of the lyrics and the now memorized music blends over each other, replay after replay, and he’s long ago lost count of how many times the song’s replayed. Every minute seems dragged out to its longest extension, and he can’t tell whether he really has only been there hours or whether he’s been there for days.

To make matters worse, he knows he must have been drugged because his most recent memories are a haze of disjointed images with no meaning or context; he bound with with what feels like industrial strength metal pipes and chains that, so far, he hasn’t found anyway to break or bend; he’s hanging from some sort of lift, chain, or hook and the bars are keeping him from getting a firmer footing; there’s something in his mouth that he doesn’t even want to think about; his eyes are taped shut...and the frustration of his situation is quickly wearing on his nerves.

 _  
Warm within  
Keep you free from sin  
'Til the sandman he comes_

His neck is starting to ache from his ongoing frantic attempts to dispose of the headpiece. His shoulders, thighs, and arms are starting to burn from the stresses of their forced positions, and the pain coming from his groin was unpleasantly distracting, but not nearly enough to distract him from the headache throbbing in time with the constant music. It’s getting harder and harder to hold a position that keeps his weight off his arms and stomach without causing thigh muscles to cramp and burn.

 _  
Sleep with one eye open  
Gripping your pillow tight_

He can’t work his jaw, and the tension - there alone- is making him want to scream, but he can’t tell if anyone’s even there to hear him. God. He understands what they’re doing; the psychological stresses he’s being placed under, and what his captor or captors expect to achieve from it; he understands it, and he’s been trained to resist it - to resist any questions he’s asked, any manipulations they throw at him.

 _  
Exit light  
Enter night_

Its been a full day. He’s sure of it now. At least a full day. He’s too hungry for it to have been anything less. He can’t remember the last time he ate before Kate’s funeral, and he’s sure he hadn’t felt like eating afterward. He can’t feel either arm below his elbows, except for a needle sharp pin pricks that run down them when ever he tries to take the weight off. He’s pretty certain that he stands a high chance of developing a clot from how long his circulation has been impacted. Gibbs shakes his head again, uselessly, he knows, but it’s a way to protest, to do something, when he can’t do anything. He’s accepted that, at least until they try to move him, his bonds are secure: he can’t get out. He hates it and hates himself for accepting it, but he’s tested every angle to his intense pain, pushed himself physically as far as he can without dislocating a shoulder, and he accepts that he can’t get out.

The silence, when it comes, doesn't provide the sense of relief that he's expecting. Instead, it's the silence of waking with the enemy on your six and no allies... the silence even the insects keep when death walks the forest. The silence comes, but the headset's not removed; he's not released; there's no move to begin questioning him. There's only a touch... fingers running over his hair, his back, his arms, bare skin on bare skin, leisurely, moving everywhere, across his lips, into his unwillingly open mouth, across his tongue, cool and wet down his back, and he knows what they're telling him: a silent message that they can do anything to him – like this. But he knows that, he's known that, and the music returns.

Despite his resolution not to give them anything, when the music starts again, he shakes his head frantically fighting the headset, trying to throw it off. He knows what they're doing, what they're going to do. They're going to let that thought sit in his mind, the knowledge that they can do anything they want to him – while he's chained and helpless- eating away at his nerves, forcing him to listen to the blasted song and stew until they're ready to question him... until sleep deprivation, exhaustion, stress, and hopelessness do their job for him. He knows what they're trying to do. He understands, and he's not stupid enough or arrogant enough to think that it's not working.

But he's trained for this. He understands this, and he can fight anything he understands.

 _  
Take my hand  
We're off to never never-land __  
_

_He can fight this._

 _He understands this, and he can fight this._

 _  
Something's wrong, shut the light  
Heavy thoughts tonight  
And they aren't of snow white_   


When the silence returns, as he knew it would, Gibbs is ready for it. He holds himself stock still, tense and ready for the first opportunity to move, waiting for the chance to break their hold or the opportunity to find out how many are hold him and why. He's ready for them to grab him and push him into a chair and question him. He's ready...

But not for the soft wedge that slides through the ring holding his mouth open, that slides deeper and deeper into his throat, back and forth over his tongue, growing harder and thicker with each pass.

He's not ready for it, but he fights it, fights the thought of it, fights the knowledge of what's forcing its way deeper into his throat, fights his his reaction, fights not to gag... to vomit... not to feel the slide of skin over his lips... not to smell... not to taste, not to notice when the wedge of flesh freezes deep in his mouth and pulses with a liquid that he's forced to swallow or choke on.

Most of all, he fights not to feel the humiliation he knows they want him to feel, when the music returns.

 _  
Dreams of war  
Dreams of lies  
Dreams of dragons fire  
And of things that will bite, yeah_

The silences are quickly becoming worse than the constant music. The silences are coming at random intervals, unpredictable in their arrival, but all horribly predictable in their progression. They're demanding more and more of him each repetition: pressing deep into his throat blocking his breath until he … participates, sometimes not moving at all- forcing the action and its result on him, pulling back so the liquid fills his mouth and coats his tongue until he swallows, holding his head in place so that he's forced to use his tongue to end the silence as soon as possible.

The silences quickly grow worse until he's clinging to the music and the thought that they'll stop soon to question him.

 _  
Sleep with one eye open  
Grippin' your pillow tight_

They have to stop soon to question him. Every hour that passes, they're taking the risk of being caught, and while he's lost track of how many hours they've held them, he's certain, now, that it's been for more than two days. The weekend has to have passed, by now, and he has no doubt that his team has already started looking for him. They have to question him soon.

What's it all for if they don't question him?

 _  
Exit light  
Enter night_

The silences finally change; when they pull out of his mouth - before releasing, circle behind him, and push in, forcing the first scream from him.

 _  
Take my hand  
We're off to never never-land_

He clings even more fervently to the music's return as this round of silences progress in the same manner as the first, demanding more and more from him, until he breaks – beyond shame or humiliation - sobbing with the realization that they aren't going to stop to question him and that he doesn't understand what it's about, any more.

He's still sobbing when the music returns.

 _  
Now I lay me down to sleep_

“Now, I lay me down to sleep...” Gibbs sings softly in his mind, unable to repeat the song vocally with his mouth forced open for their use.

 _  
Pray the lord my soul to keep_

“Pray the lord my soul to keep...” He hums, not certain if he believes in a god anymore, but he is praying: praying for his team to find him, praying for his captors to decide their revenge is finished...

 _  
And if I die before I wake_

...praying for an end.

 _  
And if I die before I wake_

Maybe they have, he decides when hours seem to pass without the horrible return to silence.

 _  
“Pray the lord my soul to take.”_

 _Hours pass, and with every passing second, his fear spirals with the possibilities of the coming silence. Fantasies of relief and escape no longer even cross his mind. He's begun to hope that, for once, his team lose the trail, so that they won't be burdened with his body when the time comes._

 _He's long ago lost the feeling in his arms and legs, his world's centered to … six o'clock and twelve o'clock … and the music running through his head, which stops abruptly when the head piece is pulled out of the straps holding it to his ears._

 _"Boss … shit … Oh shit … That fucking bastard! Hold on, Boss. Hold on...”_

 _  
Hush little baby don't say a word  
And never mind that noise you heard  
It's just the beast under your bed  
In your closet in your head_   


“Damn it. McGee! Get Ducky down here. I don't care; it's secure enough! Hold on, Boss. No, keep her out... keep everyone out until Ducky gets here.”

 _  
Exit light  
Enter night  
Grain of sand,/sub>_

“Just hold on. Boss. Just hold on, okay? Ducky's on his way. Boss, can you hear me? We'll get you down in a second. Just hold on. McGee is at the head of the stairs, and we'll keep everyone out until he get's here. Just hold on. I want to get you down, but if there's a chance that unhooking this the wrong way could... Let's just wait for, Ducky, okay?”

 _  
Exit light  
Enter night.”_   


The rush of DiNozzo's assurances is so different from both the music and silence that it breaks a hoarse, partly hysterical chuckle from Gibbs. As long as DiNozzo keeps talking, he knows its over: the silence and the music are over... as long as DiNozzo's there and talking.

 _  
Take my hand  
We're off to never never-land  
We're off to never never-land  
…  
Take my hand  
We're off to never never-land  
…  
Take my hand  
We're off to never never-land  
We're off to never never-land_

ブレンキン


	5. Traces

Glancing up from the file he’s been reading, as a timer on his screen flashes bright orange, Tony gratefully grabs a bottle of Tylenol, pops the cap, tosses two back, and swallows his last gulp of cold double shot-espresso mocha cafe to wash it down - in hopes of delaying the raging migraine, which had been constantly threatening since his thirty seventh hour of lost sleep. He’s been pushing the balance between caffeine, pain relievers, no-doze tabs, and diet pills to keep him up and running over the hours since, but -according to the expanded digital counter- in the center if his screen, Gibbs had been for one hundred seventeen hours and forty two minutes... and until he brings Gibbs home, he’s going to do what ever it takes to keep running.

“Lee!”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Make another Starbuck run, Probie. Double the order, and stop by Ducky’s office to wake McGee up, on your way back.”

“Sir, I was not hired by the NCIS to ‘make Starbuck runs’, and Agent McGee is not due for duty for another two hours.”

“I’m sorry, Lee. I didn’t realize that you had another lead to pursue, something more productive to do than review the same files you have been looking through for the past two days without offering any worthwhile leads. Please by all means, do share.”

“No, Sir. I don’t, but...”

“Then, I _suggest_ that you do what you can to keep this team running as smoothly as possible, until you _do_ have something worthwhile to offer.”

Even as he says it, Tony knows he’s being a bit of a hard ass, but when it comes down to it, he doesn’t give a shit.

Lee might be a talented officer, but at the heart of it, she was a clock watcher more concerned with whether McGee was coming in early - or late (as he had two days earlier after working to 4:30 AM the night before) - than the fact that an agent was missing, and not just any agent but Gibbs, a seventeen year NCIS veteran officer and the lead of one of NCIS’s premier teams.

“Yes, Sir.” Lee answers in a watery voice as she rushes out of the room, but Tony dismisses the wince of guilt quickly. If she’s the type to cry over a coffee run and a light reprimand, this was the wrong job (and the wrong team) for her.

Sighing, he glances back down at the worthless file and pushes it away. Despite the suspicious timing, there really is no evidence -circumstantial or otherwise - to suggest that Ari’s associates, or father, were responsible for Gibbs’ absence; too little time had elapsed (just six hours after Kate’s funeral and seven after Ari’s death) for anyone to have put such a plot into operation; and Tony has a gut feeling that their best leads lie in another direction.

Speaking of which... glancing up to double check the third timer, ticking down on his computer screen, Tony grabs the phone a second before it, too, flashes orange.

“Tell me you have something!” He barks as soon as Abby picks up.

“Tonyyyyyy,” Abby complains, “The bell hasn’t even rung, yet.”

“Is the test finished or not?”

“It’s finished, but you didn’t let the bell ring.” She whines, and he sighs, dropping his forehead into his hand. He really doesn’t have room to complain about her sounding childish and tired, and he knows it.

She’s stayed up just as many hours as he has, running and re-running every test she can think of on the very sparse evidence they’ve given her, probably without of her caf-pows the benefit to keep her going, either, unless McGee thought to get them for her, a pretty unlikely prospect considering that he was practically staggering when he went down to nap on her couch before her taste for loud “disturbing” music chased him to Ducky’s less comfortable, but quieter, couch.

“I’ll be right down.”

“Tony?!?”

“Yeah?”

“Think you could...”

“Two Caf-Pows, super grande, on the way.” He interrupts, smiling with amusement at the “ _whee_ ” she gives when he says it.

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“Can’t breath; can’t breath; CAN’T Breathe!” Tony gasps beneath Abby’s tight hug.

“But you’re here, and you brought, Cafpow. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been craving it, but didn’t feel like I could go get it - in case one of the tests turned up something quick, but they didn’t and now, I’m bushed, exhausted, wiped, wired, crashable...”

“I get the picture, Abby. Now, what do you have for me?”

“Oh... here, here, here...Look at this. Major Mass Spec has done it again. I took that shard of glass that you had McGee dig out of the bar’s dumpster and ran every residue test I could think of on it. You were right. Mass Spec found traces of alchohol; I know, I know, not a surprise, finding alchohol on a bar glass, but what about this there were also traces of acetaminophen, annnnnnnnnd - drum roll please - drrrrrrrr-Rrrrrrr-Rrrrrrr...”

“Ab-By.”

“Okay, okay, spoilsport, I found flunitrazepam.”

“Flunitra--whaaa?” McGee yawns from the doorway, rubbing sleep gunk from his eyes.

Before Tony can cut her off with an abbreviated explanation, Abby jumps in explaining, “Flunitrazepam, it’s a benzodiazepine derivative marketed as a hypnotic, amnestic, anxioulitic, sedative, muscle relaxant that...”

“That sounds like...” McGee broke off, interrupting her with another yawn.

“Rohyphenol.” Tony agrees, grimly. “It is. Good work, Abs, but it’s not going to be enough; ruffies, in a bar, are just about as common as alcohol.”

“On a glass with the boss’s DNA?” Abby challenges, running over to her work table.

“You found the Gibbs’ DNA?” Tony asks sharply, ignoring her wince, as he chastises her, “Why didn’t you tell me? That should have been the first thing you said.”

“God, you’ve got no idea of build up, do you? Anyway, his DNA wasn’t on that shard anyway, but look... see this edge? How it’s thicker at the bottom and thins on the way up. See how it has a very very slight yellow cast to it, instead of a blue cast or a brown cast like beer bottles?”

“Yeah, I see it, what about it?”

“There were only seventeen pieces, out of all of the glass that McGee brought back, that matched this piece.”

“And just how many pieces was it that he brought back?”

“Close to two pounds, wasn’t it, Tim?”

“Around that.”

“So you went through two pounds of glass to run residue tests on?”

“No, I didn’t. I was busy running the fabric and fiber tests that you asked for. Tim went through it all, sorted it, and suggested which ones to start on.”

“Good work, Probie. I’m impressed.” Tony offers, figuring that it’s the least he can say, if McGee’s gotten them the lead they need. “So, break it down for me.”

“Well, it’s like Abby said. While she was checking the carpet fibers for blood, I started sorting through the glass dividing the pieces out by color first to separate out beer bottles and liquor bottles from any broken glasses that customers might have used. Then, I went through the liquor glasses, turns out there’s only one, it smells like whiskey, and all of the pieces appear to fit together pretty tightly. Seemed like the best place to start.”

“Just for the record, McGee, you’re certain that the piece with Gibbs’ DNA and the piece with traces of Rohyphenol - a date rape drug-came from the same whiskey glass?”

“When you say it like that...”

“Yes or no, McGee?”

“Yes. I’m sure. Pretty sure. Like 90% sure that it did.”

“Good, Probie, get me that search warrant to check the entire building for Gibbs or any evidence leading to his location.” Tony orders, pulling his phone out and speed dialing the Director’s personal number.

“But, the bartender has cooperated with us fully so far.”

“It’s an act. You were there, that night, Probie, who else could have given him ruffies? Hmmm?” Ignoring Abby’s excited bouncing, Tony raises his hand to forestall McGee’s response, just as Director Shepard comes on the line.

“We’ve got a lead on the bar. I need some men. No, McGee’s asleep on his feet, beside that he’s on the way to get our warrant... The Grey Goose Bar at Largo and Pendelton.” Smiling grimly as she agrees, Tony shoos McGee on his way, and orders Abby, “Get Ducky as fast as you can.”

“You don’t think...” Abby asks plaintively as Tony reaches for the doorknob. He knows what she’s thinking. He’s thinking it, too.

“Yes, Abby, I think he’s still there.”

ブレンキン

Sometimes there are blessings, Tony thinks, about finding critical clues at 4:00 AM, one being that he is not McGee knocking on the “on-call” judge’s door (on a night the said judge no doubt still expected to be able to sleep (on-call or not)) to request a search warrant; another being that the streets are virtually empty and his NCIS tag will likely dissuade any industrious LEO’s from pulling him over for speeding; and the last being that it’s still sufficiently dark that he needs to concentrate on his driving enough that he can’t spare more than a thought or two for what he’ll find when he get’s there.

He does think that Gibbs’ still there, but that’s not, precisely, a comforting thought.

Despite Director Shepard’s certainty that Gibbs’ had been captured by one of Ari’s associates, Tony has had someone tailing the bartender since the very first night, with no results.

The bartender has kept a very regular habit, coming and going from work work at the bar; he hasn’t made phone calls (suspicious or otherwise), missed posting to his online classes, carried out anything significantly or suspiciously large from the bar, or shown up with any kind of bruising or other injury. If he had been the one holding Gibbs, Tony can’t see how Gibbs could still be alive because - if there’s anything he’s certain of - it’s that Gibbs would fight with everything he had.

The alternative, though, was something Tony’s not quite capable of thinking of either, because the thought of the NCIS without Gibbs is... unthinkable.

“Be here,” Tony murmurs to himself as he pulls into the parking lot, gratefully realizing for the first time since he left the NCIS offices that the bartender wasn’t going to be there, because whatever shape he was going to find Gibbs in, if the bartender was there - there is a good chance that he's be Ducky's next client.

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Tony has already searched the bar’s front room when McGee arrives with the warrant, and the Director, as back up.

“We’ll talk about this later, DiNozzo.” She warns before pulling her own flashlight to begin searching, seeming to recognize that he’s kept the lights off to keep the news of the search from getting back to the bartender for as long as possible.

The dread and anxiety have been growing in Tony’s chest as he’s been fruitlessly searching, so he barely holds his temper when McGee asks “Have you checked the wine cellar, yet?”

It takes a second for the words to sink in, but when they do, Tony can barely breath as he turns and shines the light in McGee’s eyes; his voice hardly sounds like his own, when he asks, “Where?”

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“Stay here, Probie.” He orders, after they break the lock.

Gibbs might not be down there, but if he is, there’s no way of telling what condition he’ll be in. Tony’s pretty certain, though, that if Gibbs’ is still alive but beaten up, he won’t want McGee to see him like that... and if he’s not, that McGee isn’t prepared to see him like that. Truth be told, Tony’s knows he’s not either, but he’s Gibbs’ second and this is his responsibility.

The stairs down are narrow, and in the dark, Tony nearly slips twice, but he works his way down,slowly, listening for any sound.

When he finally hears it, he freezes on the stair. It’s breathing, but it sounds abnormal somehow: not the way breathing with broken ribs sounds (he’s heard that before), or the gasping kind of breath that someone makes being pulled out of the water, but odd rapid but not deep.

“Boss?!?”

…

“Boss, can you hear me?”

Tony’s heartbeat pounds in his ears when there’s no answer. The boss would answer if he could, but there’s still breathing so he rushes back to the top of the stairs and flicks the light on, no longer caring if someone alerts the perp, as long as he’s found Gibbs... as long as Gibbs was still breathing.

Rushing back down the stairs, Tony trips several steps down and lands painfully on his knee when he finally sees Gibbs.

The bastard... the fucking bastard has Gibbs strung up from chains in the middle of the room - completely naked - like an obscene mimicry of a puppet or marionette. Other than the bruises that line whereever the chains and bar’s touch the boss, there doesn’t seem to be any obvious bruising or evidence of a physical beating, but trying to respect the boss’s privacy, he focuses on his ribs and torso - the most likely places that a beating would show.

Tony’s own breathing starts to slow when his eyes fix on the headset and he realizes why Gibbs hasn’t been answering. Gibbs’ head is hanging down, giving him easier access to the headpiece and straps holding it in place, so Tony starts there - not wanting to lift Gibbs’ head if there’s a chance of spinal damage.

“Boss..”

Gibbs’ head jerks up, his mouth contorted in a silent scream... that suddenly isn’t when Tony realizes what he’s seeing: a thick rubber ring’s been forced into Gibbs’ mouth...

“Shit … Oh shit …“

and it’s slick with drying spots of a clear-ish slime that sickens Tony as he finally recognizes the smell that he’s been subconsciously ignoring since he tripped on the stairs. An unpleasantly familiar scent that threatens to dredge up …

No! He can’t do this now.

Despite his earlier attempt to respect Gibbs’ privacy, Tony lets his gaze travel down his boss’s back and he nearly retches at the glaze of red smeared down Gibbs’ thighs

“That fucking bastard! Hold on, Boss. Hold on...”

Not sure how Gibb’s will react if he’s touched, Tony hesitates trying to decide on the least offensive point of contact, before touching Gibbs’ shoulder lightly. Not a pat, just contact, before he leaves him to run up the stairs.

“He’s here.” Tony announces, “Get Ducky.”

Instead of listening, McGee tries to push past him, almost pushing him back down the stairs when Tony throws his arm across like a bar.

“Damn it. McGee! Get Ducky down here.”

“But, we haven’t called it as a secure scene.” McGee protests, glaring at him and trying to glance over his shoulder.

“I don't care; it's secure enough!” Tony growls, understanding McGee’s need to see Gibbs, but he doesn’t have the time to deal with McGee’s needs right now, or his own.

Leaving McGee at the top of the stairs with orders to keep everyone out until Ducky’s had a chance to check Gibbs over and get him covered up.

“Just hold on. Boss. Just hold on, okay? Ducky's on his way. Boss, can you hear me? We'll get you down in a second. Just hold on. McGee is at the head of the stairs, and we'll keep everyone out until he gets here.” He rambles, hating that he cant stop talking.

Gibbs hates it when he babbles on, but he has to stay in the present to help Gibbs and that means talking, “Just hold on. I want to get you down, but if there's a chance that unhooking this the wrong way could... Let's just wait for, Ducky, okay?”

Gibbs chokes out a hoarse, half chuckle with an eerie edge that sends a shiver of remembered pain down Tony’s spine.

“Keep talking,” he tells himself, quietly. “Stay present, and keep talking.”

It’s hard though, Tony can’t think of what to say and trying to remember what was okay to hear brings him to close to memories that he can’t deal with right now.

“Hey Boss, you’re going to be really proud of Abby and Probie. They did some great work to get us here. But I’m pretty sure that they’ll both need a day or two off to catch up on lost sleep. Abby’s been running on Caf-pows and twinkies, and McGee’s getting a thing for the cafeteria tuna sandwiches that might require psych counseling to get him off of. I’ll have to buy stock in his favorite breath mint if he keeps it up...”

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Other than raise an eyebrow at Tony’s non-stop babbling, Ducky’s quick, clinical, and careful, checking Gibbs out and helping Tony lower Gibbs and get him out of his bindings.

He doesn’t say anything when Tony takes his shirt and slacks off then gently helps the boss into them before letting the others come down. Nor when he pushes Director Shepard out of the way to help Gibbs up the stairs then onto a stretcher. Nor when Gibbs clings to Tony’s hand as paramedics lift the stretcher.

There’s a look in Ducky’s eyes, though, that tells him they will definitely be talking about his odd behavior in the very, very near future - a conversation that he’s very much not looking forward to - so much so that it almost keeps him out of the ambulance when Gibbs refuses to let go of his hand ordering, “Keep talking, DiNozzo.”

Whether Gibbs can read his hesitation in his grip or from his expression - even through swollen, heavily lidded eyes- Tony doesn’t know, but when he repeats again, “Keep talking, DiNozzo,” with an edge of need in his voice, Tony doesn’t even think of refusing, and climbs into the bus to sit beside Ducky.

“Will do, Boss. Like I was saying, McGee went digging through the dumpster out back looking for broken bar glasses so Abby could run them through the mass spectrometer. He gathered about two pounds of glass, but when he came back in he smelled like a wet dog... a drunk wet dog... a real booze hound, if you will...”

ブレンキン


	6. 'Top'

“Anthony, My Boy, Jethro is in capable hands.” The familiar tone of suppressed concern in Ducky’s voice wakes Jethro from the willing haze he’d fallen into as doctors move back and forth assessing and treating him.

“I know.” Tony’s clipped, sullen response almost draws a sigh from Jethro, but he really doesn’t feel up to referree’ing whatever impending argument is building between the men.

“There are guards on the door and most of the NCIS teams have been reallocated to the search for the suspect.”

“Your point?”

“Simply this, My Boy, I would prefer not to be forced to contact the Director and ask that she order you to accompany me for a few moments, so that I may run a few simple tests,” when Ducky’s voice begins to get the steely edge tone that he only rarely uses with Jethro, at his most recalcitrant, Jethro nudges one of the doctors aside to see them.

“Gibbs said he wants me here; I’m staying. Consider it protection duty. I wasn’t shot - or in any altercation at all- and whatever else you’re thinking of poking me and prodding me about can wait.”

As much as he’d like to deny Tony’s claim, he can’t; he needs Tony there to keep talking and keep him in the present until he can get enough sleep and distance to cope with what happened. Just as much as he needs tony there, though, Jethro suspects that Tony needs to be there just as much... Tony’s voice is suspiciously determined, carrying a tone that Jethro’s only heard before when Tony was either seriously injured (and trying to hide the severity of it) or otherwise ready to disregard something he needed to face.

“Leave him alone, Ducky.” Jethro croaks out then gasps at the rush of pain to his abused throat.

“Jethro, My Boy...” Ducky protests, but breaks off when one of the Doctors interrupts.

“Dr. Mallard, if you cannot respect Agent Gibbs’ request, I am afraid that we will have to ask you to leave.”

“I am so, as well, Doctor, but I am concerned that Agent DiNozzo is presenting symptoms of an acute stress reaction, possibly in a post-traumatic incidence.”

It takes a moment for the words to make sense to Jethro, but when they do, he turns to Tony and is startled by second’s pallid, defensive expression.

“Tony?” Jethro asks as gently as his scratchy croak will allow.

Tony’s eyes briefly match his, and Jethro’s heart skips a beat at the panic shining in his agent’s eyes, before he can order to go with Ducky though, Tony breaks his gaze and turns on Ducky, almost sparking with his anger.

“You just can’t let it drop... you can’t let it _fucking_ drop can you? Not even when you should be paying attention to the boss? FINE! I - I can’t … Damn it! Why can’t you just let it drop?”

One of the doctors is reaching for the emergency call button, but Jethro grabs her hand, shaking his head as he mouths “please.” She hesitates and glances at the others in concern but finally drops the button.

“Anthony, isn’t this behavior of yours, alone, enough to tell you that something is wrong?”

“Shut up! Shut up, Damn it. I - I, Damn you...”

“Tony!” Jethro croaks a little more loudly this time, and Tony spins to stare at him his mouth agape and his eyes far too openly pleading.

“Calm down. Come on, Tony, calm down and let’s talk about this.”

“I - I can’t. Not about _this_. I … I n-eed … I n-eed.” He breaks off, jerking his cellphone out of its case and rapidly dialing a ten digit number.

The number seems to pick up immediately, and Tony startles a little before a rush of disjointed sentences tha “Top, I … Yes, Sir, I’m … At Bethesda Naval Hospital. No, Sir, not me, my boss though. No, Sir. Not really … One of the doctors, our doctor... noticed and... okay. Really?!? Okay. I will.”

He snaps the phone closed, but clutches it to his chest, vaguely similar to a child with a teddy bear, and a feeling of dread grows in Gibbs stomach as he watches his agent.

“If you’ll drop it for half an hour …” Tony murmurs, finally seeming realizing that they are still watching him, then - glaring at Ducky defiantly- continues, “you’ll get your fucking answers.”

Jethro really doesn’t have the energy he needs to deal with this, but thankfully, when Tony presses, “Just thirty minutes!”, Ducky sighs wearily and nods.

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Thirty minutes turns out to be only seventeen, when Agent Cantrell steps into the room. “DiNozzo, there is a Master Gunnery Sergeant, retired, Caleb Andrews …”

“TOP!” Tony shouts eagerly, interrupting Agent Cantrell but the agent doesn’t seem to mind and tries to hide his surprised smile as he waves to his partner to let the man pass.

Jethro isn’t sure who he expected to step through the door, but the man who steps through the door isn’t it. Although he walks with the ingrained stride of a career marine, the slim aging black who enters resembles Gregory Hines more than any of the Master Gunners that Jethro had ever known. Tony could introduce the man as a computer analyst, journalist, or librarian, and Jethro would be more inclined to credit it.

When Andrews speaks though, the steel in his tone, erases any doubt Jethro might have had.

“You missed your weekly call, Son.”

“I’m sorry, Top; I didn’t mean to worry you. I …”

Andrews’ knowing eyes turn to Gibbs, looking him over head to toe, as he interrupted Tony’s tense apology. “Not asking for an explanation, Son. Eight years, you haven’t missed a call- not even when they were ready to write you off with the plague. I knew if you missed a call, you had cause. This Gibbs?” he asks with a head jerk in Jethro’s direction.

Jethro doesn’t give Tony a chance to answer, however; sitting bolt straight up in bed, he retorts angrily: “We didn’t write him off!”

“No, I hear tell you didn’t, but then Tony, here, never has grouped you in with the ‘theys’ and ‘thems’ that he talks about when he calls. If you’re mentioned, it’s by name. Thought you would have realized that, by now.” The man’s eyes glow with frank humor, and Jethro thinks he just may be right; he’s known for a while that Tony was one of the most loyal second’s he’d ever had. It’s a bit embarrassing to be told that, though, by someone whose name he’s never even heard.

It feels a bit too much like Tony has an aspect of his life that he’s kept totally disconnected from the NCIS, their team, and Gibbs’ personally, and while he realizes that all of the members of his team probably could say the same, including himself of course, the thought brings a scowl to his expression that Tony misreads.

“I’ve never said anything about our cases, Boss. Never gave any details, about them, or anything else about work … not even names, just generalities.” Tony hurriedly explains, looking a bit panicked before he glances away.

Jethro sees Ducky opening his mouth to assure Tony, rightly, that that wasn’t what he was thinking, just as he’s about to do the same, but before a single syllable is uttered by either of them, Andrews insists, “He knows that, Son. Isn’t that right, Marine?”

“Absolutely!” Jethro growls, despite the pain it causes his throat. “Tony should know that by now, too.”

He realizes he sounds a bit petulant about it, but - Damn It! - he didn’t like surprises, especially when they involve his team …

 _“Especially when they involve Tony.”_ The thought shoots across his mind like a warning shot across a trespassing ship’s bow, shaking him up just as much as he imagined a torpedo crossing a bow wave might.

“Fact that he didn’t call tells me you’ve both had a pretty tough week, so if neither of you are quite on top of your game- shouldn’t be a surprise. Now, if you gents don’t mind, Tony and I need to talk. Tony?”

Despite the fact that it’s a reasonable request, that he knows he’s safe with Ducky in the room, that there are guards on the doors, and that Tony did call the man and ask him to come - Jethro still wants to refuse him - wants Tony to stay close. It’s an irrational urge, he knows, and he tries to stifle it, but when Tony shakes his head - a tension leaves his chest that he hasn’t been aware of building.

“T-op, I can’t Gibbs s-said he wants me here.” Tony stammers, and his nervousness prick’s Jethro’s own nerves, making him feel intentionally and irrationally selfish.

Andrews turns to study Tony for a second, but Jethro can’t look at Tony, can't meet his eyes; he can’t let Tony see how much he wants him to stay, how much he needs him to stay, as he demurs: “That’s okay, Tony. Ducky’s right; I’m in good hands.”

“The boy’s not talking about your needs, Gibbs.” Andrews answers bluntly holding his gaze, “He’s talking about his own. Isn’t that right, Son?”

This time it’s Tony, who can’t meet Jethro’s gaze, and it leaves Jethro feeling more uncomfortable even though it should have made him feel better that Tony wanted to stay.

“Yes, Sir.” Tony’s whisper is too quiet, though they all can hear it.

“Okay, I want you to answer me straight, though; not what you think I want to hear, or what he does, tell me the straight truth. Are you okay with them knowin’?”

Tony’s shaky nod isn’t convincing.

“I’m not buying it, Son. If you can’t say it, you don’t mean it. Let me ask this another way: Do you trust Gibbs enough to introduce him to your Papa?”

The question doesn’t really make that much sense. Jethro knows that Tony’s relationship with his father could hardly be called functional, but he’s spoken to the man on the phone. more than once, usually when Tony was in the hospital in critical condition - meaning that Jethro's spoken to the man far more than he’d preferred to. They hadn’t been personally introduced, but...

“Yes, Sir!” Tony’s dry murmur doesn’t have a pleasant sound to it, but it is more convincing than his nod, so Jethro takes it in stride. He can’t throw stones after all; it’s not like he’s told anyone on his team, or even among his ex’s about Shannon and Kelly.

“And the doctor?” Andrews presses.

Tony’s silent for several seconds, but the answers clear enough.

“Ducky, give us a few minutes, okay?” Jethro suggests, taking the brunt of the request off Tony.

“Thirty minutes, more like, or better yet till you're called” Andrews orders, and no one misses that it’s an order.

Thankfully, Ducky’s had enough experience with Jethro that he can hide the hurt at Tony’s distrust, but Jethro can see it, and he’s pretty sure that Tony can to, a fact confirmed when Tony rushes forward to stop him at the door before he can leave.

“I’m sorry, Ducky.” Tony offers quietly, his apology as pained as it is sincere, and Ducky nods.

“Quite alright, My Boy. Quite Alright.”

Tony’s expression screams that he doesn’t believe Ducky’s accepted his apology, at all, but he doesn’t press the point when Andrews comes up behind him and squeezes his shoulder pulling him away at the same time. He looks more vulnerable than Jethro thinks he’s ever seen Tony look, and that hurts a lot more than any of the injuries that the Doctors have filled him full of pain killers and sedatives to counteract.

What hurts more, though, is that Tony looks absolutely comfortable following ‘Top’ away from the door.

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	7. What Just Happened

“Now, I know you’ve already told me once, but just for my peace of mind, I want to hear you say it again. Are you okay with Gibbs meeting your Papa?” Top asks quietly, catching Tony’s chin as he turns to glance at the boss, and despite himself, Tony has to think it over for several seconds before he can answer.

Gibbs has always been good to him: tough, yeah, but never uncaring, manipulative, or duplicitous. He’s protected Tony, had his six, and never held back when it mattered. He’s … He’s Gibbs, and if Tony trusts anyone, outside of Top, to see him when he’s out of it, it’s be Gibbs, but at the same time, Tony doesn’t even have a clue what he’s like when he zones out, and that scares him.

Not that he zones out, precisely. He only does that when Top’s around to watch his six, but what he’s like when he does... well, he's pretty sure that he doesn't want Gibbs to see him like that because he’s asked Top to explain it, but as much as he trusts Top, the description Top’s given doesn’t make sense to him. It just doesn’t fit with what he knows about himself.

He doesn’t get quiet when he’s upset, he gets mouthy and jokey and irreverent. It’s an art he’s practiced for years and has down to a science. He knows just how far he can go to distract himself, just what it will take to sidetrack Ziva, and exactly how many quips it will take to make McGee blush. He doesn't shut do...

“Tony,” Top taps his chin to catch his attention, and Tony ducks his head sheepishly.

“Sorry, Top.”

“None of that now. Just tell me straight.”

“Yes, Sir. I trust him.”

“Not what I asked, Son. Are you _okay_ with him meeting your papa? Be straight with me.”

He means it, Tony knows, so he gives him the most honest answer he can, glancing over the man’s shoulder to watch for the boss’s reaction to his words: “Not entirely... but about the same amount that I’m not entirely good with even you seeing me like that... and yeah, we’ve already had that conversation so... yeah. Okay?”

And maybe his voice sounds a bit to pleading and pathetic when he asks “okay?” - but Top’s expression doesn’t change, and Gibb’s is wearing his “solving-the-New-York-Times-crossword-in-ink” serious but curious look - so Tony just nods.

“That’s my good boy.” Top smiles encouraging, reaches behind him, and pulls something out of his back pocket.

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When he holds his hands out Tony’s startled to see that he’s brought one of Tony’s favorite comic books, and Tony hadn’t even noticed.

He must have been blind not to notice.

It’s from the Green Lantern ‘Emerald Knights’ series. He’s read the first two in the series, and has wanted to pick up the next on, but his father has said “no” every time Tony’s asked.

“Wow, Papa. This is great! Thank you.”

Papa Caleb’s arms are already open for the hug Tony wants to give him, but Tony’s still shy about. His father frowns on ‘melodramatic displays’ but Caleb’s says that it’s okay with him and that if his father ever saw he could always say it would have been rude “to just leave him standing there with his arms open”.

Papa’s hug is great, as always, and Tony wants to stand there longer but he’s gotten tall enough, now, that he can see over Caleb’s shoulder, and Tony’s shocked to see that there’s someone in the room with them.

“Papa?” He asks, uncertainly, stepping away quickly and dropping his arms.

“Tonio, it’s alright, Son. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine; this is Special Agent Jethro Gibbs, of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”

“Wow.” _A special agent_ Tony studies the Papa’s friend closer, wondering if a special agent is anything like a secret agent, and if that’s how the man got hurt because it looks like he’s come to stay with Papa Caleb so Papa could take care of him, too.

“Is that...” Tony cuts himself off realizing that his question would have been rude and impertinent, and steps around Papa to reach a hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Sir.”

“You, too, Tonio.” Mr Gibbs answers; his voice sounds croaky and like it hurts to talk.

He’s not looking at Tony, though, he’s looking over at Papa with a frown. Father does that a lot, and it always means that he’d like Tony to be elsewhere so they can talk.

“Papa, would it be alright if I sit down over there to read? I’ll be quiet, I promise.” He says it more for Mr. Gibbs’s assurance than for Papa’s. Papa always says he’s a good boy, and that - if anything- he’s too quiet.

“That would be fine, Son. Thank you. Just for a bit, though, then we can watch a movie. I’m sure Gibbs wouldn’t mind us putting on a movie to watch. Would you, Gibbs?”

“No, ’s fine...” Mr. Gibbs pauses watching him back, and it makes Tony feel a bit uneasy, so he slides back a bit more behind Papa, but Mr. Gibbs still seems intent on watching him, then asks: “Like movies, Tonio?”

Tony figures he’s keeping his words short so his throat won’t hurt more, and nods so the man won’t have to respond.

Mr. Gibbs does anyway, though, “You have a favorite?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And...?”

“It’s the Maltese Falcon, Sir.”

“Hmmm. Good Movie.” Gibbs has a smile on, when Tony looks up, but it looks a little strained, like his mother’s smiles were just before the live-in nurse would send Tony away to read.

When the man doesn’t ask anything more, Tony looks to Papa Caleb and asks “It’s okay if I read now?”

“Yes, son, Thank you for understanding.” Papa answers, reaching up to ruffle his hair and the gesture makes Tony feel better.

Papa Caleb’s friend seems nice enough, and doesn’t seem like he’d be one of Father’s friends, so Tony doesn’t think that he has to worry about the man talking to Father about Tony’s lax behavior or reading the comic.

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"What just happened?" Jethro asks quietly - demanding with his eyes even as he keeps his voice neutral.

It’s all too obvious that DiNozzo won’t react well to raised voices or a perceivable verbal attack on his “Papa”.

"It's called regression. Bout eight years ago, your ... _agent_ went through something that's left him with some damn nasty memories, and _whatever_ happened to you is hitting too close to home for him too cope. Instead of letting those memories drag him under, he's letting himself go... into something like a trance, I suppose you could say, or a mental state or place. Doesn’t matter what you call it. What matters is he’s letting himself feel safe and protected for a bit, so he can cope with what’s happened.’

Trying to digest the man’s words Jethro stares at Tony, whose curled into the chair like a child and reading the comic with utter fascination.

He’s heard of regression before, but from what he’s heard, it was a more of a failed technique that fell out of favor - than an actual psychological strategy, but watching Tony it’s not hard to see why it might have been dropped, even if it was effective.

It’s hard to reconcile what he’s seeing with the capable and competent agent he knows... the man he’s come to trust with not only his life but his team’s lives... the man whose come through for him without complaint. At the same token, he - intellectually - knows that it must work because Tony couldn’t be any of those things if it didn’t. Still it's hard though to see him like this, given what his Second had survived to date, Gibbs has no doubt that whatever Tony suffered must have been horrendous to put his resilient friend into a state where he’d need _this_.

“What ha--”

“Not my story to tell.” Anderson cuts him off seeming to anticipate his next question, but before he can reformulate it, a loud sniffle carry’s across the room. Anderson’s eyes cut away from him to Tony, whose rubbing his shirt sleeve across his eyes with his head turned away, then back to Gibbs.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he’d let you see this, if he didn’t intend to tell you.”

It’s not any consolation. Gibbs is almost certain that it will be even more painful to hear the story directly from Tony, but he doesn’t respond because it’s clear Tony needs his “Papa’s” attention.

The comic is hanging loosely now from his fingertips; tears are streaming down his cheeks - despite the shirt sleeve blotting them; and Gibbs can just barely hear weak sobs escaping from Tony. He’s begun rocking back and forth, by the time Anderson reaches him, and when the man hushes, “there, there, there”, Tony throws his arm around the man with a plaintive wail.

 

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	8. A Storm of Tears

"There, there, there," Papa Caleb murmured into his ear as his arms wrap around Tony, "Let it out, Tonio. Let it out, Son." 

Tony's not sure he wants to, though. He wants to go back to reading, thinking he won't feel so scared if he could just focus on reading, but he's already finished it once, and can't even remember the story.

There's not even any reason he should be feeling this way, that he can think of, not with Papa here to protect him and Mr. Gibbs. … But, he can't help it. Almost from the moment he'd finished reading, this awful, achey, frightened, heart-hurting feeling had come over him, making his chest feel all tight and thick, like he had something wrapped too tight around it to let him breath, and his eyes were hurting with his effort to hold back the tears that were threatening to let go. 

Papa never minded his crying, and Tony believed him when he said it, but his father claimed it sickened him and that DiNozzo's never cried, so Tony always tried to hold them in. He hated how it felt doing that though because it always made his nose feel stuffed up and sniffley, and his eyes gummy and tight, and -worst of all- gave him really, really bad headaches... So when Papa told him it was alright to let go, he usually did. This time, though, it was harder because they weren't alone. 

Mr. Gibbs didn't seem like he'd complain back to his father that Tony was crying, but that didn't mean that he wanted to watch Tony "making a scene" as his father called it. 

Papa Caleb must have realized what he was thinking though, cause after a couple of seconds of Tony trying to hold back and keeping his face turned away so Mr. Gibbs wouldn’t see how bad he was doing at it, Papa just hugged him tighter and ordered quietly, "None of that now, Tonio. There's not a reason in the world to keep all of those pains and sorrows in. They're just like poison eatin' away at you, and the only sure way to get 'em out is to wash 'em out with those tears of yours... Let 'em out so you can feel better." 

Tony wanted to what Papa Caleb told him because Papa had always been right about what made him feel better… and always made so much over how good Tony was when he did what he was told to, which he always did when Papa Caleb came to take care of him, but…

"Mr. Gibbs…" he began, not sure of how to explain. 

Thankfully, Papa seemed to understand and answered, "Don't you worry about Gibbs, Tonio. He was a marine and tough enough to deal with a few tears. Isn't that right, Gibbs, a few tears won't scare you off?" 

"Not a chance," Mr. Gibbs agreed, but he was wearing a frown, and his quiet voice seemed really, really angry. 

When Tony still didn't let go and cry, Papa pinched his chin with two fingers and turned Tony's face back to look in his eyes. 

"What's going on, Tonio? You know that you're safe here, don’t you? I wouldn't let anyone yell or hurt you, and neither would Mr. Gibbs, or else I wouldn't let him anywhere near you."

"But, he's mad." Tony whispered plaintively, not wanting to insult the upset man, further.

"Yeah, I am, Tonio." Mr. Gibbs answered, softly, surprising Tony that he'd heard the whisper, "But not at you, just at whoever made you feel so hurt and scared."

Tonio glanced over Papa's shoulder at the man, wanting to believe him, but still having to ask, "You're sure?"

"Yeah, Tonio, I'm sure. You do what Top says and just let go. We can always get out the rain gear and galoshes if we need to." 

Tony giggled weakly at the image of his papa and Mr. Gibbs in rubber over-boots and rain jackets, up to their knees in his tears, complete with mops and mop buckets in hand, even as they told him to "let it out", and he relaxed into Papa's rocking hug, not noticing when his chuckles turned into other sounds, softer and pained, as he let the horrible feelings wash out of him.

Papa held him, rocking gently, for the longest time until there didn't seem to be anything left and Tony was just limp and numb in his arms. Seeming to recognize that the storm of tears had ended, Papa kissed him on his forehead and commented, "Well, I don't think we'll need the galoshes this time, but it never hurts to be prepared," drawing a watery chuckle from Tony as Papa sat him back up. 

"How're ya feeling?" Papa asked in a gentle tone.

Tony shrugged his shoulders and murmured "okay", but when Papa asked if he was ready to talk about it, an almost-shout of "No" broke from him before he could stop himself. 

"That's okay, Son. We've got time. Why don't you go back to reading for a while till you feel ready, kay?"

"Yes, Sir." Tony replied eagerly, flipping back to the inside page of the comic book and reading the credits, but Papa wasn't finished with him, yet, and cleared his throat. 

When Tony glanced up, was rolling a quarter in his fingers that Tony couldn't help bit fixate on as it twisted between Papa's fingers, twirling back and forth. "Tony, it's not time to come back up, yet, but I want to ask you a question… understand? You don't have to come back up.. just a quick answer." 

Tony watched the coin rolling back and forth between his Papa's fingers with a bit of amazement that his papa could keep it constantly rolling, over knuckle after knuckle… not aware that his voice had deepened as he answered, "Yes, Sir." 

"Good… that's good. Stay in that feeling you have when you're reading, safe and comfortable, nothing around to bother you, and me and Gibbs here to protect you. You don't have to do or say anything you don't want. I just want to know if it would make it easier for you if I tell Gibbs my part of it, what I know and saw... easy, easy. You can say no if you want to; no one will be upset. It's your choice. I just want to know if it would be easier for you if I did."

The feeling of unease that had rolled through Tony at Papa's question slowly faded as the he watched the coin glint with light as it flipped back and forth. Finally, with a deep breath, he answered, with a soft, "Yes, Sir," knowing that Papa expected a verbal answer for important questions. 

"That's my boy. You just read until you're ready to talk, and don't worry none about us: we can find some cards or play tic-tac-toe to pass the time if need be."

"Chess?" Tony suggested, a thought popping up from somewhere, "Gibbs'd be good at chess."

"Really?" Papa asked with amusement, and Tony nodded with certainty; though, he couldn't say why he was so certain that Mr. Gibbs would be. 

"Well then, I guess it's a good thing I brought my travel set. Don't worry, though, we'll keep ourselves occupied as long as you need. You just settle in and read until you're ready. Okay?"

"Yes, Sir." Tony agreed, opening the comic with a sense of anticipation. He'd wanted to read this issue for so long.


End file.
